and his wonders in the deep
by acrosticacrumpet
Summary: The beached whale isn't the only sea-creature far from home, and Makoto keeps pouring on water.


AN: I wrote this for a request on Tumblr, but I got emotional because. These boys.

Title from Psalm 107, because I'm into it at the moment because of my Insular Latin essays and Sumsion's "They that go down to the sea in ships", although I considered taking inspiration from Masefield and calling it "a sweet dream (when the long trick's over)".

Disclaimer: I know very little about whale rescues.

* * *

As soon as they see the whale, the shore seems to narrow to it so that it becomes the only thing they can see.

"It's a melon-headed whale," Rei says almost immediately, precise as ever, even if his voice is shaking slightly. "Technically a dolphin. They tend to prefer deep waters, they – shouldn't be anywhere _near_ a beach."

Makoto looks to Haru, expecting his eyes to be on the whale, but Haru is almost knee-deep in the sea, returning with a bucketful, careful not to spill it. The strain stands out in his arms. _Of course. Of course Haru would know what it needs the most._

Haru is careful about pouring the water. "Not on the blowhole," he says, very simply.

"Nagisa," Makoto says, "more buckets. Rei, call help."

For once saying nothing, Nagisa snaps out a salute and speeds across the sand at a frantic pace; Rei is on the phone in seconds, using a combination of his Detailed Explanation voice and his I Am An Adult voice, Makoto thinks with a kind of very distant amusement, as he carries the bucket back again, refilled.

Haru takes it from him and pours without looking at him, eyes on the whale. Since Makoto took over bucket-carrying duties Haru has not wanted to leave its side. His eyes are – he looks quiet, not restless, but his eyes are fierce and implacable as the tide.

Bucket. Pour. Bucket. Makoto can't tell if his arms really don't ache, or if he just doesn't notice, vision and heartbeat and breathing narrowed to the wet thing on the sand. Pour. Bucket.

Nagisa returns with a tremendous rattle of buckets and as many people as there were doors he could bang on: the whale soon does not lack water. Makoto watches something in the lines of Haru's face relax, a little. He thinks the desperate need for water, the sensation of being stranded in a place where you were not made to live, might be something that echoes with Haru, and frightens him.

As he takes an empty bucket, he lays a quick hand on Haru's shoulder, presses his mouth to Haru's forehead. Haru's eyes widen, a little, the lines around them softening. His mouth quirks.

Makoto goes to get more water, fighting back a blush. It's hard to remember that he can do this, now – there is nothing unnamed, hanging in the air between them, not any more. Every casual gesture that has lain restless in his arms and hands and lips is allowed now. Haru welcomes it like water.

Bucket. Pour. Bucket. Pour. Bucket. Pour. The whale heaves. Haru's eyes are fathomless as the sea. Bucket. Pour. There's a kind of cold, constant thrumming, not quite adrenaline: the only things under the grey sky are Haru and the whale, almost one and the same. The only things are the bucket and the seawater. Bucket. Pour.

It feels like an age, but it isn't long until Coach Sasabe – whom Rei, in an inspired move, had called just before calling the lifeguards – arrives with a truck and a padded sling. God only knows where he got them: Makoto isn't inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Not my first whale rescue," Sasabe says cryptically.

It takes all of them there with towels and buckets of water – always more water – and some metal poles and a tarpaulin, and Makoto's heart in his mouth, trembling like the shining skin of the whale, but they manage to lift it and carry it to the truck. Some of them, Nagisa especially, dart back and forth from the makeshift stretcher to the sea to get more water. Little tributaries of the whale-road.

Haru immediately takes his place by the whale, in the back, so Makoto stays with him while Nagisa and Rei pile into the front with Sasabe. Silently, Makoto and Haru take up the task of keeping the whale wet, Haru pouring while Makoto passes him buckets. It gets to the point where the rhythm of taking the bucket and passing it feels almost as instinctive as the rhythm of his heartbeat. Makoto looks at Haru, intent upon the whale, and thinks it's no wonder that the whale is so docile, even beached. It's not alone.

Once they reach the harbour it's another gut-clenching transition, carrying the trembling body of the whale onto Sasabe's boat, refilling the buckets. Then the boat is off with a kick, and it starts to rain, mingling with the spray. Makoto lifts his head to the wind for a moment, breathes out.

So strange, to think how all the hope of your life can be bound to another life, all of a sudden.

At last they get into deep enough water that they can release the whale, and it's another transition that has Makoto's heart in his mouth, but they get it safely out and it seems to swim away gladly enough. Haru's eyes follow it.

"Haru," Makoto says. "No. You will freeze."

Haru looks at him as if to say _I wasn't going to jump in after it_ , but Makoto knows him better than that, as Haru well knows.

The ride back feels quite weird, now that the whale is safe and all that tension released. Makoto finds himself looking back towards the open sea, wondering where the whale is, how far away it is by now, if it's OK.

"Is it weird," he says, as Haru comes over to stand next to him, "that I almost feel as if we've sent off that whale into the world, like it's – our child, or something?"

"Makoto, you feel that way about everything," Haru says, and presses closer, leaning into the crook of Makoto's neck. Makoto closes his eyes and listens for the cries of the seabirds.

Somewhere out there, a melon-headed whale is swimming, not dead, home in deep waters again. And here is Haru, close to Makoto and at home, himself. This is good.


End file.
